


Gang Related

by Boycott_Love



Category: Fall Out Boy, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Blood and Violence, Gay, Guns, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2019-09-14 06:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16907946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boycott_Love/pseuds/Boycott_Love
Summary: A man of the law and a criminal, natural born enemies in the modern world. But one cannot exist without the other, in more ways than one.





	1. Dead Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a story I have on Wattpad originally titled The Emo Mafia.
> 
> Also, this takes place in the 20s but I'm 90% sure there's inaccurate shit going on.

As a child Patrick always dreamed of working in law enforcement, saving lives, helping people, trying to make the world a better place. But now, as an adult, he wishes he had a different childhood dream. He's not really saving anyone or making the world better, he's just stuck drinking horrible coffee and staring at a line of criminals on the opposite side of a two-way mirror. Not really his idea of a dream job.

Sure, he's in the higher end of law enforcement as a federal agent but it's... boring. He wanted to be on the front line, shooting bad guys and bringing down major drug operations like in all the films. But no, instead he's at a lineup drinking shitty coffee and filling out page after page of reports. Maybe he should have just taken up his dad's offer of helping out at his shop repairing instruments. Maybe he should have done a lot of things.

“Okay, miss,” Patrick speaks to the small, older woman who was more than happy to point out who she saw at the scene of a shooting that happened just across the street from her home. She claimed to be a witness and was the only one that came into the station, hopefully she's not just looking for attention. “Do you see any familiar faces or remember any prominent features?”

The woman nods surely and points to someone on the other side of the mirror. “Number six, that one I'm sure of.”

Patrick reaches for a button on the wall, pressing it and talking into the small speaker beside it. “Six, step forward.” He commands over the intercom and the culprit does as they're told. The man that moves doesn't have much of an expression, just a dull, blank look as though he's unphased by his current situation. He's on the taller end of what's considered to be average height, arms covered in colorful ink, and thick, curly hair. When Patrick tried to guess who the culprit might be, Six admittedly wasn't his first choice.

“There was someone with him,” The woman mentions, pointing to someone else in the line. “Number eight.”

Patrick's voice erupts over the intercom again, asking for Eight to step forward as well. They seem to sigh as they move up, staring at the mirror as if they could see who was on the other side of it. This one was a bit shorter than Six, dark hair and also covered in ink but with less of a variety of colors. Patrick feels like he's seen him before, but can't put his finger on where or when. Could have been in the newspaper.

“Anyone else?” He asks the woman, she studies the lineup a final time before shaking her head. “All but six and eight may leave.” He says over the intercom and the others leave the room, along with the woman who was escorted out by another officer.

The room is empty other than Patrick and the two men who stood and whispered things to each other, but Patrick didn't think much about what they were saying, he just wanted to get this done and go home. He grabs a clipboard from a small table on the other side of the room, a few pages of reports clipped to it and ready to be filled out. Patrick groans inwardly and digs in his pocket for a pen before scribbling words on the papers.

Two sheets in and he's hearing a voice from behind him, “Hey. Hey, fed.” trying his best to ignore it because he does _not_ want to interact with anyone or anything else until his next shift two days from now. But then they get a bit louder and Patrick can't ignore it anymore. His grip tightens on the clipboard and he sticks the pen in one of his pockets before stomping over to the window where he sees Eight with a smirk on his face.

“What do you want?” Patrick asks, pressing the intercom button so hard that it leaves an imprint on his thumb. He glares at the man through the glass.

“When can we leave?”

“I don't know,” Patrick sighs. “That's not my department. Someone else gets to deal with you once I'm done with your reports.” He tries to go back to said reports but Eight decides to run his mouth again.

“Shit, fed, you sound like a wet dream.” He hums appreciatively. “What can I do to keep you talkin’, huh?” Then his smirk turns to a grin, biting his lip as his friend chortles beside him. Patrick isn't amused, his jaw tight and his patience thin, fully ignoring them this time.

He finishes the reports uninterrupted and leaves the clipboard on the table for the next officer that comes in behind him. Patrick grabs his coat and exits the room, thankful that he'll never have to see those two idiots again.

He thinks about turning in his resignation during the drive home, as he does just about every other day, but he needs this job and finding another one would be difficult. At least that's what he keeps telling himself. Being a man of the law isn't all it's cracked up to be and he's dead tired of it. Maybe it's not too early to retire.

***

Thankfully, the following day is his day off. It's not often that he isn't at the station working and trying to keep himself from dozing off, so he decided to actually go out and do something rather than laze around at home.

There's a small, family owned coffee shop within walking distance and he takes his time getting there, strolling leisurely through town until he arrives. He gets his usual drink and finds a seat by the window, watching people walk by and some as they enter the shop. He eventually puts all of his attention into his beverage and newspaper, sipping and trying to unwind from the previous work week he's had. He reads something in particular, a paragraph or two stating that a couple of guilty men got off scot-free last night.

It's not like he hasn't come across anything like this before, but Patrick was really hoping they'd get put behind bars, especially that smug asshole. He guesses there wasn't enough evidence to lock them up. There's nothing he can do about it though, all he can do is sip his coffee and sulk about it for a little while.

“Justice system’s fucked.” He mutters to himself before neatly folding his paper back up and putting it on the table. He takes another careful sip of his drink.

“Ain't that the truth.” He hears someone respond from the table directly behind him, he didn't think anyone was listening. “Can't keep the bad guys in and the good ones out.” It wasn't something Patrick felt the need to comment on anymore, this conversation could die out as quickly as it started if he just keeps quiet. But the only problem with that is he recognized the voice and couldn't shake the sudden feeling of dread, nor could he get the voice out of his head.

“I'm sorry, do we know each other?” Patrick asks after a moment of silence, keeping his head forward and awaiting their response.

“Not yet, but we've met before.” The stranger answers, and it's almost as if he could sense the look of confusion on the agent's face. He smirks to himself. “And you never answered my question.”

Patrick doesn't remember being asked anything. “What question?”

Then there's a bit of silence before Patrick hears the man scoot his chair back until he's right next to the young agent, a smug look on his face once Patrick finally turns to look at him. “What can I do to keep you talkin’?” He asks, leaning back and resting his elbows on Patrick's table.

It was then that he realized where he knew the voice. The man beside him was from last night's lineup, criminal number eight. Patrick's face flushes with annoyance, glaring at the man before turning away and gulping down what was left of his lukewarm beverage. “Why aren't you in the can?” He's almost offended by the man's presence.

“I made bail.” He shrugs. “But I gotta go down to the courthouse next week for a trial if ya wanna be my date.”

“Never in a million years.”

“Ooh, ice cold.” He chuckles. “Makes sense with you bein’ a cop. All you flatfoots are frigid as hell.”

“Did you just come here to harass me?”

“‘Course not, I'm here on other business. You just happened to sit behind me, probably pissed ‘cause I ain't in the big house gettin’ the shit kicked outta me.” He shakes his head, feigning disappointment. “Wishin’ harm on someone you don't even know. Ain't that a sin or somethin’?”

Patrick clasps his hands together and rests them on the table, letting out an annoyed sigh. “I wouldn't know.” He admits, his parents were never the religious type and didn't push it on him. But he used to think that he believed in something at a time, he's not so sure anymore.

“My grands were Catholic, that's about all I know of religion right there. Bores the hell outta me anyway.” Then his attention is directed elsewhere, watching someone as they exited a door behind the shop’s counter. “This was a nice little chat we had, Red. Hope we get to talk again soon.” He says quickly before getting up out of his seat and pushing it toward his table.

“Red?”

The man turns and smiles. “I dunno if it's ‘cause of me or if your suit's cuttin'off your air supply, but you've been flushed this _whole_ conversation.” Patrick rolls his eyes, the other man simply smiles wider. “Either way, red's a good color on you.” Then he walks off toward the counter where the person he spotted earlier was currently taking orders.

Patrick takes the opportunity he's given and gathers his things, throwing his empty cup away as he heads out the door of the shop. He decides to go home, where he knows he won't run into anymore strange criminals.


	2. Morning Errands

Pete Wentz, head honcho of the Wentz Family Crime Syndicate for the current and possibly last generation. There's always been a lot of pressure on him growing up as he was an only child and therefore the only heir to his father's criminal throne. His old man wanted him to take over if anything were to ever happen to him, and considering Pete Sr. took his last breath in a backseat after a shootout gone wrong, Pete would say he's overqualified. It was a responsibility he was more than happy to accept.

He had to pay someone a visit today, well a couple of someones; two coked-out fools who don't seem to know what a due date is, the Way brothers. Pete gave them a buzz the other day at their place of business but only one of them was available, the other was away straightening out a few 'personal affairs'. Today though, Pete knew for certain that both of the brothers would be at their shop, politely taking money from patrons as usual. Too bad they're better at taking money than giving it.

"This needs to be clean," Pete explains as he wraps a silk tie around his neck, the one belonging to one of his best suits. "Clean and professional. We go in, we take what's ours, we get out. That's it. This should take five minutes tops, any longer than that and my old man'll be turnin' in his fuckin' grave."

He then slips his suspenders up over his shoulders, tucking in the parts of his button-down that slightly protrude. He had somewhere important to be right after so he felt the need to dress up. "Gabe, you drive, keep the car runnin'. Trav, you and Bill are with me, never know what the Way's will try this time. Slippery bastards. Hand me my coat, will ya?" He gestures to what's draped over the back of one of the dining chairs, pulling it on once Travis hands it to him. "Let's do this quick, we've got other shit to do."

Everyone straightens their ties and coats, waiting for Pete's word. He usually likes to take his time making sure he doesn't forget anything, roaming through certain areas in the house just to make sure. He holds a finger up, checks the kitchen counters one last time, then finally nods in confirmation. "Alright, let's go." Then they all file out of the house and head for the car.

***

The ride to the shop is short and sweet, Pete hopes this little visit will be the same considering he's on a schedule. Pete steps out of the passenger side and slams the door shut, motioning for Trav and William to follow him inside while Gabe keeps the engine running.

The three of them step through the door and are met with curious and concerned eyes from the patrons currently trying to enjoy their Thursday. Pete gives them all a toothy smile, one that looks harmless and friendly. Some of the people even smile back at him.

"Mornin' folks," He greets, keeping his smile up the whole time. "My boys and I have a bit of business we need to deal with here, and I don't think any of you should be around in case said business gets a little, uh.." He shrugs a shoulder. "..outta hand, I guess you could say." But no one seems to know whether or not Pete's serious, so he guesses the friendly approach won't do the trick this time.

He locks eyes with someone sitting alone at a nearby table, a young woman that couldn't be a day over seventeen. He walks over and takes a seat across from her, his smile more crooked than it was just moments ago. "Mornin', peach," The girl smiles shyly in response as Pete reaches for something on the inside of his coat. "Tell me, hon, what's your life worth to you?"

The girl visibly stiffens, her face going pale. "I-I'm sorry?"

Then Pete pulls a piece from his coat, smile vanishing and face going stone cold. He pressed the barrel of it against her forehead, immediately causing a wave of panic throughout the entire shop. The girl begins to cry uncontrollably. "I said, _'what's your life worth to you'_?" He speaks calmly over the screaming and terrified customers, just loud enough for the girl to hear. "Listen close, darlin', 'cause I ain't gonna say this twice. You and all these fine people need to get the fuck outta here before I pull this --stop, _stop_ fuckin' cryin, Jesus-- before I _pull this trigger_ and I blow your goddamn brains out, ya hear me?"

She nods rapidly, trying and failing to stop the tears pouring out of her eyes. "Good. Now, get these folks on board before they meet a similar fate. Can ya do that for me?" But the girl's too scared to do anything except bawl and beg for her life. Pete sighs. "Guess I'll just shoot you poor bastards one by one 'til the owners come out, 'cause I know those motherfuckers are hidin' from me. That sound like a better plan to you, huh?" He cocks back the hammer on his gun, some people have already scattered and ran out of the place while the poor kid with the gun in her face is probably really close to pissing herself.

"Pete!" He turns his head toward the voice, finding that it's none other than the youngest Way brother Michael, a coffee pot in his shaky grip. "Please stop scaring the customers, it's not good for business."

"No, no, Mikey, ya know what's _really_ not good for business?" Pete gets up from the table but he doesn't put the gun away just yet, the girl finally runs out and hopefully goes back home to her parents. "Not holdin' up your end of our deal. Remember that? I told ya last week last week I was comin' back here." He stalks over to the lanky man, eyeing him the whole way before he presses the barrel of the gun at Mikey's chest. "So where's my money, Mikey?"

"Um," Mikey slowly backs himself into a table, trying to escape the gun that's aimed at him, but Pete just follows. "I, uh... I thought Gee was supposed to-"

"I don't wanna hear excuses, I wanna see my money. I'm wearin' my good suit today and I really don't want your blood on it, but if it has to come to that..."

"No! I mean, um, just- we need a little more time and we'll have it, I swear!" Mikey pleads, putting the coffee pot on the table for fear of dropping it.

"That's not fuckin' good enough, Mikey." He so badly wants to unload every bullet into this man's chest but instead he shoots the pot, sending shattered glass and coffee all over the place without even batting an eye. Mikey yelps and flinches, afraid that Pete will turn the weapon on him next as the suited man pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Where's Gerard?"

"H-Hes out - he's not here." The owner answers quickly.

"You told me he'd be here, where the fuck is he?"

"He... he went to get supplies."

"Yeah?" He knows when he's being lied to, he just wanted to see how long Mikey would keep it up. "What kind of supplies?"

"Oh, uh, I-I don't know. Just... supplies."

"Like what, Mikey? Supplies like what?" Pete was getting tired of this, he hated trying to be civil, especially with the Way's. They were never cooperative and he should have known something like this would happen at some point in time. That's what he gets for offering protection to these idiots. He should have made a deal with Frank instead, he was the only sensible one.

"Just some..." Mikey waves a hand around, seemingly searching for a word that won't get him killed. And all he came up with was, "...stuff. You know, for the shop. "

"Stuff. Just stuff?" Mikey nods in response, pretending that he isn't currently sweating bullets and avoiding any and all eye contact. He stares at the mess of coffee and glass on the floor beneath his feet. "Hm. Lemme ask you somethin'." He takes a step closer, leaning in like he's about to tell the brunette a secret. "How fuckin' stupid do you think I am?" Mikey pales at the question. "Your brother took my money and left to find you two a whole heap of powder, didn't he?"

By now Mikey is dripping sweat, but he still refused to confess. "I-I-I don't know what you're talking abo-"

The second the denial started spilling from his mouth Pete was ready to do some damage, he was ready to hurt somebody and coffee pots just weren't going to cut it. He grabs one of Mikey's wrists and forces his palm down flat against the table, he presses the gun barrel to the back of the man's hand and immediately pulls the trigger, barely giving Mikey enough time to realize what was happening. The ear-splitting sounds of screaming and the gunshot cut through the air like a knife, terribly loud in the silence of the shop.

Mikey falls to his knees in agonizing pain, cradling his hand as it bled profusely. There was a hole where the bullet had pierced clean through his flesh and was now lodged deep within the table's splintered surface. Pete kneels down beside the wounded man, speaking calmly. "The truth ain't in ya, Mikey, and there's nothin' I hate more than a dishonest, _lyin'_ piece of shit. Ya got three days to give me what you owe, --that's stretchin' it a bit if ya ask me-- and if that cash ain't in my hands by Sunday night the next bullet'll be right between your fuckin' eyes. Get it?"

The only answer he gets is a few sobs and a pained whimper. So he tucks his gun back into his coat, yanks Mikey's hand back and holds it up, then gives his palm a sickening slap, causing Mikey to writhe and scream as the pain was just too much. A demented part of Pete was fairly amused by it. "Do you fuckin' get it?!"

All Mikey could do was nod, mouth hanging open and trying his best to stutter out an 'I get it' but the tears, blood, and screams were enough to satisfy Pete. Plus, he was running late so it would have to do anyway.

"Good." He smiles, patting Mikey on the back a few times before getting to his feet. "See ya Sunday, Mikey. Send your brother my regards." Then he's backing up and out of the store as if nothing ever happened, Travie and William close behind him.

They all return to the car where Gabriel waits for them, ready to pull back out onto the road. "How'd it go? Good?" Gabe asks them.

"Great." Pete grins, the other two nodding and muttering in agreement.

"We've still got time for Joe's trial, probably got time for drinks, too. Y'know, if it goes well." Gabe pulls out onto the road, heading in the direction of the court house.

"'Course it'll go well," Pete ensures. "Joe's got _us_ as friends."


	3. Free as a Bird

****

There's nothing that could bore anyone more than an early morning trial in a courtroom full of judging eyes and disapprovingly shaking heads, whispering to each other about things they know nothing about. At least that's how Joe feels about it. All the jury knows is the ‘what’ rather than the ‘why’ and never bother to even think of the latter.

_What did he do?_

“... Your charges are as follows: six counts of assault with a deadly weapon, four counts of manslaughter, ten counts of money laundering, and three counts of running an illegal boxing ring out of your basement.” The judge adjusted her glasses, tipping them down to give the curly-haired man a proper look in the eye. She clasped her hands together atop the bench. “Mr. Trohman, how do you plead?”

_But_ _**why** _ _did he do it?_

Joe clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, loud enough to hear for whoever is necessary. “Uh, not… guilty?” He shrugs, taking a quick glance around the courtroom and spotting several incredulous faces. He almost smiles at them.

_Because... it's just what he does._

He knows he’s nowhere near innocent in this case --or any other case he's been involved in-- but pleading not guilty will drag the trial on for a little while longer and the jury will have to come to a final verdict. But this is an open and shut case, five minutes and the jury will collectively find him guilty as all hell. He's just trying to waste time until-

“Joseph!” The courtroom doors burst open, two suited men walk in while a third struts in front of them with mischief in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. Bill and Travie take a seat in the very back of the room and give Joe a nod as Pete continues down the aisle and toward his friend’s side of the stand.

He gave Pete a look, clueless to whatever he may have planned. All he said was that he was going to get Joe out of a potential life sentence, he didn't say anything about how he was going to do it. But he knew Pete would do anything to get him out of trouble, so it had to be something close to foolproof.

The neatly suited man leans over the edge of the stand, “Gimme five minutes and you'll be free as a bird, Joe. Don't worry.” Pete drums his hands along the edge of the stand in excitement, he must have had something stupidly effective in mind today.

“Excuse me, sir, but you cannot-”

“No, no, excuse _me_.” Pete practically skips over to the judge, a tired looking woman with greying hair and a deep frown on her face. She's seen many cases, has sentenced many guilty --and some probably innocent-- people. She's seen it all and Pete can definitely tell that she's not impressed with him. “Sorry to interrupt the way I did, your honor. But better late than never, huh?

“And who are you exactly?” She cocks a suspicious eyebrow.

“I'm attorney Lewis Kingston, Joe's- I mean, Mr. Trohman’s lawyer. Sorry I'm late but I had to finish up other business across town. You didn't get to the sentencing part yet, did you?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Great!” Pete claps his hands together and rubs his palms, a big, sincere smile on his face. “Because my client is innocent, your honor. I mean, manslaughter? An illegal boxing ring? Now that just doesn't sound like Mr. Trohman at all.”

For the next ten minutes Pete paced back and forth, speaking on Joe's behalf without missing a single beat, hands in his pinstriped pockets as he dug Joe out of this hole. Pete knew about the laundering already, he's the one who gave Joe the job in the first place. The manslaughter and assault also wasn't anything new, but he couldn't quite say the same thing about the boxing ring. As long as it brought in extra cash then Pete didn't really care who beat the shit out of who.

"Mr. Trohman wasn't even present during the alleged fights, how could it be proven that it was his call?" He pauses, taking a look at the jury and the others who wanted to see Joe be put behind bars. They were silent, waiting for Pete to continue his point. He thinks he has them right where he needs them to be. "Just because it took place in his basement doesn't necessarily mean he ran the whole operation. My client's a family man, there's a good chance he was just taking the wife and kids out for ice cream. Isn't that right, Mr. Trohman?"

"Hm? Oh! I mean, yes, of course," Joe agrees with little hesitance. "I love those little... angels." He says, trying his best to look as if he's getting teary-eyed just thinking of that nonexistent family of his. Pete gives him an A for his efforts.

"See?" Pete continues, giving the jury his full attention. "He was out with his family. Ain't no way he pulled a gat on somebody. Ain't. No. Way." He emphasized by 'subtly' pretending to shoot from the hip with his fingers pointed like a gun at the jury. A few definitely noticed his actions and Joe had to physically stop himself from banging his head against the stand.

The judge allows Joe to leave the stand and walk back to his seat at the council table where Pete meets him. He takes a seat next to his friend, looking much too proud of himself. "I should be a real lawyer, huh? This is fuckin' easy!" He speaks softly in Joe's direction but there's no mistaking the sound if genuine excitement in Pete's voice. He thinks this might be the most fun he's had all day.

"If you're gonna act like a lawyer, ya gotta sound like one." Joe points out, his eyes trained directly on the judge and her suspicious glances toward Pete. She might not know what's going on for certain, but she can definitely tell something about Joe's 'lawyer' isn't quite right.

"What?" Pete gives Joe his undivided attention this time, reading the way his features make him look a bit worried. "I don't sound like a lawyer to you?" But the satisfied smirk never left Pete's face.

"You did up until you fuckin' said ' _ain't_ _no way he pulled a gat on somebody_ ', then added insult to injury by pretendin' to shoot the bastards in the goddamn jury box!"

"Damn, you saw that?" Pete shakes his head, he really thought he covered that up well enough. "I was goin' for subtle, y'know? Hm, I guess it wasn't as subtle as I-"

"It _definitely_ wasn't as subtle as you thought."

"Look, talkin' proper's hard when you barely went to school, Joe. My old man thought I was better off elsewhere, so 'scuse me if I happen to slip into my old ways."

"It's just until the trial's over. She's gonna figure somethin' out if ya keep talkin' like that."

"Alright, alright, fine. I'll pretend a little better." He straightens his tie and folds his collar down a little neater in an attempt to better get into the swing of things. "Never thought talkin' would be such a damn chore." He mutters to himself but he's sure Joe heard. Pete looks in the direction of the judge, her eyes narrowed at him for a second or two before Pete gave her a wicked grin then directed his eyes elsewhere. He sees the jury stepping out of the back room, he didn't even know they were coming up with a verdict already. He must have gotten too caught up in his and Joe's conversation to notice.

There's a middle aged man standing as the rest of the jury takes a seat, waiting for him to read what conclusion they collectively came to. "We, the jury, find Joseph Trohman to be.." Joe seemed to be slightly on edge as he watched the man from the moment he walked out of that room. Pete wasn't as concerned, he's pretty sure he sold his lawyer act well enough to disguise who he really is and make Joe a free man. He doesn't know what Joe is getting all antsy about.

The man cleared his throat then read the verdict off of the paper. ".. _not_ guilty." He said, and a majority of the spectators were not happy as they gasped and groaned throughout the courtroom. But the judge had no choice but to adjourn the court and let everyone go.

Joe did happen to let out a big sigh of relief though as Pete simply looked at him, patted him on the back, smiled and said, "Admit it, I'm a good lawyer."

"Shut up." Joe gets up from the table as Pete does the same, still smiling like an asshole. "I need a drink." He walks off, Pete trailing behind him as they meet Bill and Travie by the entrance. But when they all head for the exit of the courthouse, Pete goes off in another direction.

"Where ya goin'?!" Trav calls after him as he's halfway down the hall already.

"Gotta piss!" Is Pete's response, all that excitement must have rushed through him. The other three leave, deciding that Pete will just have to meet them outside when he's done.

Pete finds the toilets quick enough, it's oddly vacant considering a trial just ended. He figured everyone would be rushing through here for a bathroom break, but he didn't mind the solitude. He uses the closest urinal to the door, cleans up, and washes his hands the best he can with the few drops of soap that's left. "Fuckin' swell." He swears as he rinses his hands then turns off the faucet.

Just as he takes a step toward the exit he hears a stall door click open, he could have sworn he was alone before but he figures he just didn't pay enough attention. The person walks out with their hands in their suit pockets, giving Pete a look of suspicion similar to the one the judge gave him earlier. But this particular face was a bit more familiar to him.

"Were ya takin' a shit or just watchin' me piss?" Pete asks jokingly. 

"Neither." Patrick responds, watching as Pete also put his dampened hands into his pockets. His interest must have been sparked by Patrick's presence and his simple answer. Pete tilts his head in curiosity. "I saw you today - what you did in the courtroom."

This day just keeps getting better and better, Pete thinks. He's been smiling so much today that his face might get cramps. "Ya did, huh? How'd ya know I'd be here anyway?"

"Last week you mentioned needing to come here for a trial, but I assumed you'd be a spectator and not a lawyer." Patrick explains. "It's illegal to falsely portray an attorney, you know that?"

"I know a lotta things, Red."

"Please don't call me that."

"Why?" Pete takes a few steps in the agent's direction, the other man takes a small step back, more so for safety rather than because of fear. He could tell that Pete was sly and very good at what he does, he could kill Patrick right now and ensure no one found out about it if he really wanted to. "Ya don't like pet names?"

Against all of Patrick's will his face flushes a light shade of pink from of a combination of awkwardness, frustration, and annoyance. And Pete couldn't get enough of it, smiling wide at the reddened cheeks of the man before him. He takes a final step toward him and Patrick doesn't back away this time as Pete enters his personal space, his blue eyes flooding with rising anger.

"Listen here, fed. Until ya get proof, everythin' ya say about me is a lie. Which means ya can't touch me, ya know _that_?" Patrick stays silent as Pete twirls the agent's tie between his fingers, a knowing smile on his face as he gives the tie a final little tug and turns on his heel, strutting out of the bathroom in a similar fashion as when he entered the courtroom. "See ya 'round, _Red_." Then he's gone and on his way to meet his friends that are waiting for him outside.

As much as Patrick hated to admit it, he knew Pete was right. He couldn't make accusations without the proof to back it up, otherwise it's just heresay. But he can get proof - probably much more than he'll need. He'll just have to stay close to Wentz in order to get it.


	4. If Angels Could Sing

The night that follows is full of laughter and joy, liquor and live music, all to celebrate Joe avoiding the big house yet again. But this particular speakeasy was exclusive, Pete bought the place out at least every weekend just for him and the gang to drink how they wanted without being swarmed by curious cops looking for an easy bust. But he knew the right places to go and the right people to pay, money could get someone like Pete a lot in this city.

The whole place is already in full swing by the time Pete arrives with the guest of honor, an entire flood of familiar faces and black suits cheered as they walked in. Joe couldn't hide his excitement, grinning ear to ear as Pete stood beside him with a look of pride. He wanted his guys to be comfortable and happy, he was seen as a threat by most but everyone in the room knew he cared about the people in his corner. He had their back as long as they had his.

The two begin to step through the crowd, receiving many welcoming smiles and drinks held up in Joe's honor as they made their way to the bar. The stools were all taken up but Pete wasn't planning on drinking at the bar anyway. During celebrations like these Pete tends to drink until his blood resembles a Bloody Mary and then dance with the closest and first person he sees. It was nearly impossible for him to sit still, both from his excitement and the booze, but it was hard for him to be still on a normal day so this wasn't much different.

“Andy! Good to see ya!” He greets the nicely dressed barkeeper. When Pete first met him he was hesitant to serve him, considering his reputation and what Andy's heard around the block. But a little bit of green could persuade anyone to do almost anything, and also certain curly-haired, blue eyed criminals with a love for cocktails. “A bottle of your finest Club Whiskey and a Gin Rickey for my boy here. Make it as pretty as you, he'll love it.”

The smallest glimpse of pink dusted across both of their faces just before Andy turns away to get their drinks ready and Joe buries his face in his hands. It physically hurts to be Pete's friend sometimes.

“Pete. Why?” The blush on his cheeks turned into a full face of cherry. Pete didn't even attempt to conceal his amusement.

“‘Cause it's fun.” He shrugs and it's no surprise that Joe rolls his eyes and nearly goes back to face planting his palms. “Oh, come on. You've seen how he looks at you, and  _ I've _ seen how  _ you  _ look at him. Just show him your bedroom already.”

Andy returns with their beverages before Joe could even get his mouth open. He wanted to say so many things to Pete at that moment but Andy was there so he figured it could wait. He kindly accepted his cocktail as the barkeeper carefully set the drink in front of him and then handed over a clear bottle full of liquid bronze to Pete along with a small glass.

“All I ask is that you keep most of it in the bottle and _ away _ from the stage. We had to get a new singer for your shindig tonight and I don't need you spilling my good liquor all over this one.”

Pete thinks back to that night maybe three weeks prior. He got a little carried away and tried to swing dance with a full glass in his hand front and center of the whole speakeasy. The main one affected by the incident was indeed the singer who practically just quit on the spot.

“The last one was shit, she needed to be fired anyway.” He replies, grabbing his whiskey bottle by the neck and prepared to make it his date tonight. Andy gives him a disapproving look. “Okay,  _ okay.  _ For you, Andy, I'll try to be good tonight. Don't wanna waste good hooch on another singer, that's for sure.”

He tries to escape to a table before Andy gives him another glare almost as bad as the ones his mother used to give him. But halfway there and he hears “Stay away from the stage!”. Pete raises his bottle to indicate he heard the man's words, but it doesn't mean he'll listen to them though.

He picks a booth somewhere close to the back of the room,  _ away  _ from the stage just like Andy asked him. But once the whiskey starts pouring down his throat he can't promise that he won't migrate to the front and do something stupid. Andy should know this, he's been around Pete long enough to witness his habits during drinking hours.

For a while he keeps his word, he stays out of trouble and lounges comfortably at his table as he sips straight from the bottle. Andy gave him a glass but he and Joe were busy making heart eyes at each other and Pete didn't want to intrude. And also because he'd rather drink from the bottle anyway.

Apart from prohibition in this time and age, another thing this world had a distaste for was homosexuality and anything else that resembled such. One thing Pete hated most was how the law tried to prevent people from being themselves, and how some other hateful individuals attempted to express their dislike by killing or beating anyone they deemed a ‘fairy’. So he created a safe space for his gang and associates to do just that - be themselves, both at his mansion and in public places. And nothing made him happier than shoving a giant middle finger in hate’s face, or anyone's face for that matter.

For the next half hour Pete simply sits and watches the crowd drink and dance the night away as the band on stage played a swinging tune. Joe actually convinced Andy to take a break from the bar and had him on the dancefloor, the two of them smiling as they did the Lindy Hop together. He could definitely tell they were having a great time and he's glad his friend finally got the balls to make some kind of move.

Pete took another grand sip from his bottle, watching as everything began to blur slightly around the edges with every new thing he made eye contact with; patrons, paintings, the exposed brick of the walls, everything. So he leans his head back and closes his eyes, hoping to avoid all of those dizzying colors. It seems to help and he looks content as all he can hear now is the upbeat music, and gets lost as he blindly takes a messy drink of his whiskey.

That is until the music suddenly changes and turns to something softer, a sweet melody played on a classic Baby Grand. He'd know the sound anywhere, there's one sitting in his office where his mother used to play on special occasions. It's a familiar song, one he remembers his mother singing for his father every year on his birthday. Pete Sr. absolutely  _ loved _ to hear her sing.

**_“Another bride_ **

**_Another June_ **

**_Another sunny honeymoon_ **

**_Another season_ **

**_Another reason_ **

**_For makin’ whoopee”_ **

But it's not the sultry voice of their usual female singers, it seemed only they knew the best songs to sing for a slow dance. This one, though, was deep and seductive and so smooth that Pete thought he could turn the sound into ribbons. Finally he opens his eyes, an overwhelming need to stare at the stage. The lights have all been dimmed, nothing but a bright spotlight shining directly on the one making beautiful sounds, the dancefloor full of intimate movements.

**_“A lot of shoes_ **

**_A lot of rice_ **

**_The groom is nervous, he answers twice_ **

**_It's really killin’_ **

**_That he's so willin’_ **

**_To make whoopee”_ **

All he can see from his seat is a bright reflection from what looked to be a pair of glasses and what he assumes is just a black suit. It was hard to tell as the slight blur came back to him. He had to get closer, he  _ had  _ to find out who owned this flawless voice and he definitely couldn't do it from the back of the room. But then he remembers Andy and what he said about staying away from the stage, but Pete believes he has a simple solution: just don't take the drink with him. No drink, no spill. Problem solved.

**_“Now picture a little love nest_ **

**_Down where the roses cling_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_Picture the same sweet love nest_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_Think what a year can bring”_ **

He slips out of the booth and sways slightly on his feet before he feels balanced enough to continue forward. He squeezes between people and maneuvers between full tables and chairs just to get a better look at this siren. There's a table between a decorative plant and another table occupied by his friend and the barkeeper. Andy's just about to ward him away from the stage before Joe stops him and whispers something in his ear. Andy seems to leave it be for now.

**_“He's washin’ dishes_ **

**_And baby clothes_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_He's so ambitious he even sews_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_But don't forget folks,_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_That's what you get folks_ **

**_For makin' whoopee”_ **

Pete's on the edge of his seat, trying to be as close as possible without being on the actual stage. He's in awe when he gets an eyeful of angelic light and he notices that the colors blur a little less if he focuses on one thing at a time. The song sparked memories of his childhood, of his mother and father and how strong their love was. How a young Pete  used to dance around while his father watched his mother with such adoration. He's not sure if it's the whiskey or the song itself, but there's a bit of excess moisture building up in his eyes.

**_“Another year_ **

**_Maybe less_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_What's this I hear?_ **

**_Well, can't you guess?_ **

**_She feels neglected_ **

**_And he's suspected_ **

**_Of makin' whoopee”_ **

“Shit,” He swears to himself as he gets a close look at the singer's face. It could be a number of things that would make him think this, but if he didn't know any better he'd say they looked a lot like that officer he ran into at the courthouse. He didn't have a name to go off of but he's getting some strong ‘Angel’ vibes from the beautiful creature on that stage. It looked so much like the man from the courthouse.

**_She sits alone,_ **

**_Most every night_ **

**_He doesn't phone_ **

**_He doesn't write_ **

**_He says he's busy,_ **

**_But she says, "Is he?"_ **

**_He's makin' whoopee”_ **

But all it did was confuse him. Why would he be here, hired to sing at a celebration for a room full of undesirables? Was this a scheme to shut the place down and arrest everyone in the joint? Or does this man just have a genuine love for singing and Pete's just overthinking in his buzzed state? He's left with too many questions swimming around his head and not enough answers to satisfy him. But his voice, it was definitely captivating and Pete couldn't tear his eyes away. He thinks he's beautiful, but that's probably the liquor talking now.

**_“Now he doesn't make much money_ **

**_Only five thousand per_ **

******_Some judge who thinks he's funny_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_Says, "You'll pay six to her."”_ **

It wasn't like he could get a second opinion from anyone, he was the only one who actually met the man in person. To everyone else he was just the singer for the night. But Pete needed to know why and his awe was turned sour with suspicion. He gets up from the table and goes back to his own near the back, collecting his bottle and taking a long swig before he plops into the booth and goes back to watching from afar. He keeps an eye on the stage as the song comes closer to the end.

**_“He says, "Now judge, suppose I fail?"_ **

**_Judge says, "Budge. Right into jail._ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_You'd better keep her._ **

**_I think it's cheaper_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

**_Than makin' whoopee."”_ **

The entire room applaud for him and cheers, and rightfully so, some even give him a standing ovation. A crowd of drunken and enthusiastic fools. His voice carried Pete away into a distant memory that felt real enough to touch, he can't think of the last time something like that even came close. But part of him was a little angry, mainly from his acute case drunken confusion. He felt that there was an intruder in his presence and confrontation seemed like a really good idea to him.


	5. The Devil is a Lush

Pete's head is swimming in twelve feet of water by the time the singer leaves the stage, politely accepting praise from several ‘adoring fans’. But it doesn't stop Pete from intently watching the man from his little corner as he steadily made his way to the back, presumably to what the drunken mess thinks is the private lounge. Of course that's where he'd go, he's probably got someone undercover back there that he's spilling secrets to. Sneaky bastard.

He waits until the black of the fed's suit disappears around a corner before he decides to follow behind him. Pete doesn't dare take his eye off of him from then on, bumping into people and not a single one even bat an eye. It was too crowded not to bump shoulders with someone.

But as Pete continues to trail behind him, he notices him take a turn in the opposite direction of the lounge and toward the back exit instead. _Tryin’ to make a quick getaway_ , Pete thinks to himself, impatiently lessening the space between their treks. He's practically on his heels by the time they both get outside.

The moment Pete pops his head through the door frame he spots the fed standing by the brick wall of the building and take a deep breath. Pete sees it as the perfect opportunity to confront him.

“Kinda funny seein’ you in a place like this.” He attempts to say cooly, but some of the words run together on account of the whiskey running rampant through his system. He just prays the fed didn't notice.

Patrick does seem to be a bit shocked to see Pete though, blue eyes wide behind the reflection of his lenses. “What.. the hell are you doing here?” There was an obvious hint of discomfort in his question, Pete wasn't yet too drunk to catch it.

“I bought- I bought this place out for the night,” He boasts in a slur. “I think I'd… fu-” He pauses, thinking he's about to burp but tries to continue when nothing happens. “-fuckin’ remember hirin’… y'know.. _you_.”

The other man narrows his eyes, letting out a slight sigh into the midnight air. He straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest. “You're drunk.”

Pete's almost offended by that accusation. “I'm not.”

“You _are_.” He doesn't dare hide the roll of his eyes. “Listen, not that it's any of your business but I do this for multiple underground establishments. You probably didn't see my name for- well, two reasons. One: you. don't. know. me.. And two,” He sighs, adjusting his glasses a bit as he does so. “I never use my real name when I apply for gigs, I don't need my colleagues knowing I sing in places that I'm supposed to be shutting down.”

Pete's leaning against the wall now, hands in his pockets as he swayed and listened. He's quiet for a long moment, nodding lightly before saying, “I bet you went to school a long time just to talk all pretty like that, huh?”

Patrick groans inwardly. “Okay, you are _terribly_ drunk and you need to go back inside and sit… somewhere.”

“No, no, we're not done.” Pete moves from the wall and closes more space between him and Patrick, noticing how he takes a small step backward. “I'm here at least every weekend, and never once did I see you in this joint until tonight. Why's that, huh?”

Patrick gives Pete a once over, feeling as though he doesn't need to explain himself to some drunk, smart-mouth, silver tongued asshole. But he takes a deep breath and decides that maybe telling him would make him go away sooner.

“The… atmosphere.” He states simply, and it's the god honest truth. Pete gives him a strange look and he's not sure how to interpret it, the man's bronze eyes seemed to glow at him through the shadows of the night.

“Atmosphere?” Pete asks, a side of his mouth curling upward just before a he's attacked by a small fit of hiccups. But it doesn't stop him from trying to figure things out. “What abo- ***hic*** -ut it ***hic***?”

“I find it comfortable.” The fed keeps it simple, he only wanted to get some fresh air but ended up stuck in a conversation with someone he'd rather avoid. This isn't how he imagined his night going.

“Yeah?” Pete's brow raises, voice rather incredulous. “You mean t- ***hic*** -to tell me you're _comfortable_ around a flood of…” Then he pauses, eyes searching as he attempted to put his sloshing thoughts together. When his eyes land back on Patrick's confused gaze things seem to finally click, his features then relax into a smug and all too knowing smirk.

“Why…  why are you looking at me like that?”

He takes a step back toward the door, reaching for the handle and missing the first couple of times before he finally finds it and pulls it open. “‘Cause I think you've got another song to sing me, Red.” Then he disappears into the speakeasy, probably to find his table and hope his whiskey is still there waiting for him.

Patrick blows out an annoyed breath. “That is _not_ my name.” He grumbles to himself before following in the criminal's tracks, Patrick's beginning to regret signing up for two songs.

***

When Pete gets back to his seat he finds that it's occupied by several of his guys, seemingly waiting for his return. “Hey,” Pete points an accusatory finger at Gabe. “Ya better- ***hic*** \- not've touched my shit.” Then he slides into the booth on the opposite side of the others, pointedly grabbing the whiskey and dragging it closer to him.

“Y'know I don't drink whiskey, boss.” He lies with a smile.

“Bullshit.” Pete sips from the bottle, smacking his lips together after he puts the bottle down. “Nope, see? This taste like Bill's ass, so I _know_ you drank outta this.”

“Wha- how could that even-”

“No, no, _no_ ,” Joe intervenes, there was something important that needed to be discussed and it definitely had nothing to do with William's rear. It wasn't the best time or place for a meeting but the back lounge was full and the issue was too urgent to wait. “We have a problem and the subject of who eats who's ass isn't something isn't something I want to discuss. Alright? Trav, tell Pete what you found out before he says something else.”

Pete actually looks somewhat interested and gives the chestnut man an expectant look as he practically hugs the whiskey bottle.

“I got word that the Way’s are lookin’ for someone to watch their ass.” Travie explains. “We're more than likely to be the reason for it. My source suspects they went to Blurryface.”

Pete straightens up in his seat when he hears that name. _Blurryface_. It makes his skin feel like it's crawling with disgust and hatred. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be where he is today, and it could be interpreted any which way.

“Blurryface, hm?” Pete asks calmly, just to make sure he wasn't hearing him wrong. Trav confirms with a nod.

It's quiet at the table when Pete hears him clearly for the second time, and they knew this information would make him see nothing but red in his eyes. Travie could see the moment Pete's entire demeanor changes from happily hammered to a quiet drunken rage. He waits for his boss to speak, they all do, rather anxiously.

Pete blinks once, eyes trained on his half empty bottle, hand wrapped around the neck prepared for a long swig that never comes to be. He glances at the stage as the crowd begins to quiet down and the spotlight  sets on the slightly jittery man on stage.

Patrick feels his stare, even from the other side of the speakeasy. And he can't help but return the contact, a reflex is what he blames it on. He sees him watching, too far to tell for sure but he thinks he sees Pete wink in his direction.

It was just as Patrick opened his mouth to sing that he nearly cracked on the opening note, he had to close his eyes to keep from being distracted. Pete definitely notices something but doesn't give it much of a second thought, he was too busy plotting something dumb yet flawless.

He cuts his eyes in the direction of the others at the table, they were definitely paying attention to that strange back and forth he had going with the singer. But the drunk part of him doesn't care. Pete decides then to slide out of the booth, dragging the bottle along with him.

“Enjoy the rest of the night, fellas.” He says with a swaying bow and a sluggish sip before he turns on his heel and waltzes over to the bar, slamming the whiskey down on the counter as he passes.

“Save it for the next one.” He doesn't even look Andy in the eye before he heads toward the exit, throwing his coat over his shoulders before he's gone for the rest of the night.


	6. Suicide Sunday

Pete’s sitting in a car parked in front of the very same coffee shop he visited a little while back. He decided to show up a little later than he normally would, just to make them think he forgot or that they were off the hook. He wanted them to be on their toes when he decided to show them his true face. He invested quite a pretty penny into them and their craft and now it was time for him to collect his fee.

_“I_ _help your business get off the ground and all ya gotta do is pay me back on time. Simple, right?”_

All he did for them and this is what they do to repay him? Go behind his back and ask for protection from the very same man who got them to where they are in this world. _It’s never wise to bite the hand that feeds you_ , he thought. In fact, it was the only reason he helped them; because he knew Blurryface had been trying to get the Way’s for months and Pete enjoys getting under the skin of the people he despises.

A group of uncoordinated, cruel delinquents resided in the south end of Chicago. Blurryface Boulevard wasn’t a kind place and the gang that lived there was no different - relentless and messy is their way of conducting business and all it does is make Pete and his guys look bad. Everything Blurryface does, Pete’s the one always getting blamed for it by the media and police. The only thing they were ever good at was staying out of the spotlight and allowing everyone to think they were a harmless joke. But Pete knew better than to believe that.

“What’s the street lookin’ like?” Pete asks as his driver, too busy with his current task of loading his gun to look for himself. This night was going to go one of two ways: either Pete gets paid or it’s so long and goodnight for the Way Brothers.

“Empty.” Gabe answers, still scanning the street and the building of interest across from them. Most of the lights were off but a couple of figures could still be seen inside. “No cops, no civils. I think you’re in the clear.”

Pete didn’t dress up tonight, there was no need to ruin a perfectly good suit for this. Instead he just pulled a black outfit from his wardrobe, dark enough to conceal his identity and to possibly be mistaken for a shadow.

“I’ll send Trav in if things get sticky.” The driver assures, giving him a nod through the rearview. Travis was set with their finest Typewriter - a Tommygun that most of the gang referred to as ‘Dale’. Pete had his reasons, but no one else bothered to question the name. Travis is one of the only people he allows to even touch it, let alone squeeze the trigger.

Pete opens his passenger door and exits the car, tucking his piece into the waist of his slacks. “Won’t be long.” He says just before slamming the door shut and making his way across the street to get what he came for.

The door to the shop is locked but he knows the Way’s had to be expecting him. He knocks politely on the glass and smiles in a friendly manner when Gerard spots him at the front entrance. Pete can tell he’s a little hesitant to let him in, but it’s not like there’s much of a choice anyway. He comes over and unlocks it, smiling back at the other man and doing a damn good job of pretending this is just a nice visit among friends.

“Nice night, huh?” Pete says casually as soon as Gerard gets the door open.

“Sure is.” He purses his lips in an attempt to keep his smile from looking too fake. Pete was unpredictable, he wasn’t going to take a chance in getting shot for making the wrong facial expression. “Come on in.” Then he’s holding the door open for the other man, allowing him to walk through before closing and relocking it behind him. “Want anything? Coffee? Scones?”

“Nah,” Pete takes a seat at a small table in the back corner of the shop, motioning for Gerard to join him in the opposite seat so he could try to act civilized once again. Maybe this one will be more honest than his brother. “I’m not gonna dance ‘round with you, Gee, I’m sure ya know why I’m here at this time of night.” He continues once he gets a nod and is sure he has the other’s undivided attention. “Then ya know how this should go, right? I get my money and I walk outta here without havin’ to blow one down in this motherfucker.”

Gerard takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself and preparing to speak. He doesn’t want to risk a trembling voice and give Pete the fear that he wants. “I know what you’re here for,” He admits. “But if you could hear me out for just a few minutes, maybe we could come to another solution.”

“Hm,” There’s not a lot of thought that goes into Gerard’s suggestion, Pete’s had nothing but a ‘money or death’ mindset since before he left his car. He legitimately tries to consider an alternate solution, but the cold part of him doesn’t give a shit about it. He gave them more than enough time and on top of that they asked his enemy and competition for help. There wasn’t a drop of mercy left in him. “If we ain’t discussin’ money, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

“But what if we-”

“ _No_.” The smile he had is long gone, his politeness was only meant for those who he believed deserved it and these fools definitely did not. He tried to be nice before, but all they did was piss him off. “If this was your first offence I woulda considered it. But it’s not. Bottom line is you either pay up or you’re goin’ home in a goddamn _box_. So what’s it gonna be, huh?”

It’s dead silent for only a few seconds but it felt so much longer. Hours --maybe even dare to say days-- is how it seemed. Gerard was losing his composure, his fear beginning to shine through the cracks of his broken demeanor. He couldn’t worm their way out of this, he thought he could talk to Pete and get him to lighten up about the payment but it was too late to even try. He told Mikey they shouldn’t have asked the Mafia for help, they should have just left well enough alone.

“We don’t have it.” He rubs his face, scratches nervously at the stubble on his cheek, barely speaks above a whisper. He was afraid and Pete could tell.

“Speak up.” He demands, giving the yellow haired man a frigid stare.

Gerard sighs and repeats himself a bit louder, placing his hands in his lap. “We… we don’t have it.”

“Yeah,” He nods, mostly to himself. “That's what I thought you said.” Then he's jumping up out of his seat, the chair tipping backwards and falling to the floor with an ear piercing _clash_. He lashes out, reaching over and snatching a handful of lemon hair, yanking and pulling Gerard from his seat as he kicks and struggles in the process.

“Outside, motherfucker! Let's go!” He continues to drag him along, through the kitchen and out the back door leading to the dark alley behind the building.

“Please, don't do this!” The yellow haired man begs as he's thrown onto the concrete, putting his hands up in a weak attempt to reflect whatever damage that's to come.  “Pete, _please_ , don't do this!” He cries again, his voice cracking harshly from the strain. “W-We can get your money, I swear!”

“I shoulda had it on the first of the month, Lemon. Month's over.” He pulls his gun from the waist of his slacks, hammer cocked back and immediately taking aim at the crying man before him. There's a small sliver in his soul that actually _wants_ to feel bad for doing this, but the rules were clear from the beginning. “And the cherry on top, you invited those Blurryface bastards to a closed fuckin' party. And what'd I tell you, huh?”

“Please, don't…” He whimpered, vocal cords worn out from the frantic cries and pleas. His shoulders shook as the sobs wracked his body, hesitantly locking eyes with who he knew was going to be his grim reaper. He saw nothing but emptiness, colder than his frigid heart.

“No uninvited guests.”

It was then that Gerard squeezed his eyes shut.

_**Bang! Bang!** _

A shot between the eyes and another to the chest. A collapsing body on the concrete, blood spilled and tinting the man's citrus locks into a deep red, a crimson puddle beneath him and on the verge of sticking to the soles of Pete's oxford boots. His hand is still, not a hint of remorse to be found. Maybe Blurryface will see this as a warning and finally back off of Mafia territory. Or better yet, a threat.

A gasp and a strangled sob brings Pete back to the situation at hand, turning toward the door to find the other Way standing in grief at what Pete had done to his brother. He has a hand pressed over his mouth, both from shock and to silence his cries. But he won't be hurting for much longer. “Dear god…” He whimpers, it's all he could say yet it spoke a thousand words.

_‘Why? How could you? We're sorry. All of this over money?’_

“Ya shoulda just paid, Mikey.” And without a single thought he raises his gun back up. Mikey attempts to escape but he doesn't get very far from the door before he's gunned down in the kitchen - it took twice as many bullets this time, somehow after the first two he still had air in his lungs and a thump in his heart.

Once again the night is silent. No cops or civilians, just crickets and the wind. Pete lets out a breath as he takes his handkerchief from his back pocket, unfolding it and using it to wipe any trace of him from the gun in his hand. Once he feels satisfied he drops it on the ground, right next to Gerard's paling corpse. Maybe the law will think someone else was the culprit.

He goes back to the car across the street, sliding into the passenger seat and saying a simple, “Let's go home.” No one asks how it went, no one says a word, they don't think it would have been necessary. Gabriel just starts the car and pulls off in the direction of the mansion, leaving behind a mess of broken glass and bloody corpses for some other poor soul to find.


End file.
